


I Don't Know What You've Got (But Baby, It Looks Bad)

by orphan_account



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 23:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5845909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lovelace, Fourier, and Selberg all make it back to Earth. Also: pasta, the Washington Post, stuffy courtrooms, and gift shop sweatpants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Know What You've Got (But Baby, It Looks Bad)

Lovelace wakes up just as the shuttle snaps out of sublight. She gasps for air. Cryostasis is notorious for giving its users the occasional case of oxygen deprivation, and it looks like she's the lucky 1-in-25. On either side of her, Selberg and Fourier's cryo systems power down with a hiss. Lovelace pushes herself over to the controls.

The displays are lit up with data. Lovelace gives them a quick glance and, thankfully, everything seems to be within a normal range.

Fourier moves to stand next to her, placing a hand over Lovelace's. “We made it.”

Lovelace swallows. “Yeah. We did.”

Selberg clears his throat. “Not yet, Captain.” He points at the comms button.

Fourier nods, turning to face Lovelace. “You remember the frequency, right?”

But Lovelace is already tapping at the controls, tuning the system. Her hand shakes as she presses the the button down. She takes a deep breath.

“Mayday, this is Captain Isabel Lovelace, commanding officer of the USS Hephaestus. My crew and I were in orbit around red dwarf star Wolf 359. Our mission to collect radiation data and scan for extraterrestrial life has failed. Three members of my crew were killed, Officers Fisher and Lambert and Dr. Hui. Command at Goddard Futuristics has failed to respond to our distress signals for over a year. My remaining crew and I built a craft that brought us back to Earth. Please, if anyone is hearing this-”

A burst of static interrupts her.

“Captain Lovelace, we read you. This is Air Force Space Flight Command, which I _just_ realized you were probably already aware of. I'm Doug, by the way. Doug Eiffel. What can I do to help you?”

For the first time in a long while, Lovelace gives a small smile, shaking her head. But it's gone before anyone notices.

“Right, copy that, command. This craft has minimal navigation systems, so once you read us on your scanners, I need you to plot us a safe course. Get us somewhere to land. Can you do that?” Lovelace leans over the microphone as she waits for a response.

The man, Eiffel, hums. “So… I take it this is _probably_ something I should tell the commander about? Like, I thought this was just some sort of weird prank, but it sounds like you're being serious…?”

Lovelace frowns. “You _are_ aware this is the emergency frequency, correct? For life-or-death situations? Which this _is_? Goddammit, I didn't risk the lives of my surviving crew only to make it home and be mocked by some insubordinate-”

Lovelace is cut off again.

“Captain, I'm Commander Minkowski, Officer Eiffel's CO. I apologize for his behavior. What is your estimated time until you enter the atmosphere?”

“About...ten minutes,” Lovelace reads off the display.

Minkowski's exhale is audible over the comm. “Alright, is your approach angle within acceptable parameters?”

Lovelace looks to Selberg and Fourier, who are both nodding. “Yes.”

“Good. We're picking you up on our scans now. Eiffel is calculating necessary adjustments to your current trajectory. Right now it looks like you'll be landing somewhere in the Atlantic, near the equator. Does your craft have a flotation device?”

“Shit,” whispers Fourier, giving Lovelace a desperate look.

Lovelace grimaces. “Negative. I didn't think of that.”

“That's...not ideal. But we can make this work. Do you think the ship can handle landing on solid ground?”

“Depends.” Lovelace bites her lip. “How liberally are we using the word “land”.”

“I'm thinking something along the lines of 'controlled crash'.”

Selberg chimes in, “It's our best shot.”

“She can handle it.” Lovelace glances around the shuttle's interior.

Minkowski doesn't respond for a long moment. Lovelace's paranoia screams that something has gone horribly wrong. But after a moment, her voice crackles over the comms.

“Eiffel has trajectory adjustments ready. The good news is that you'll be landing off the coast of Florida, close enough to Canaveral that we won't have much trouble finding you. The bad news is that it'll take quite a bit of careful maneuvering. And you don't have much time to pull this off, so you have one shot to get it right. Don't blow it.”

Despite everything, Lovelace breaks into a grin. “Commander, I made it eight lightyears in a glorified tin can held together by duct tape and luck. I can crash this damn shuttle.”

“Well said, Captain,” replies Officer Eiffel this time. Lovelace thinks she can hear Commander Minkowski in the background, yelling at Eiffel to “give them the damn numbers!”. She clears her throat.

“Ok, jeez! Give me a moment!” It's not clear if Eiffel is talking to her or Minkowski, but Lovelace goes with both. “The data should be coming through in a moment.”

Right on cue, the controls begin to buzz as the shuttle picks up the transmission. Lovelace flips a switch near one of the terminals, and the numbers begin to print out onto the screen. “I'm going to have to do this on manual. None of the systems are stable enough to pull off a maneuver like this.”

Fourier nudges her. “Good thing you're an ex-pilot, right?”

“Well...this isn't exactly the same principle.” Lovelace gives Fourier a warm look, nudging her back.

“As long as we don't die,” grumbles Selberg.

“And we won't. There's just going to be a little chop, nothing we can't handle.” Lovelace waves her hand in dismissal. The display counting down the time begins to beep. “Five minutes until we enter the atmosphere. Let's do this.”

The shuttle hums as Lovelace throws the autopilot off. She eases the VX3 to half-power and reaches for the thruster controls, keeping an eye on the lines of data. After a minute, the computer chimes and some of Eiffel's numbers flash green.

“You're looking much better,” comes Minkowski's voice. “How's the ship holding together?”

Fourier pushes herself over to the comms controls. “Just fine. A little duct tape goes a long way. This is Dr. Victoire Fourier, by the way. Captain Lovelace is...a little busy at the moment.”

Lovelace chuckles. “Understatement of the century, Fourier.”

Alarmingly, she notes, the shuttle has begun to rattle. Selberg notices as well.

“Captain-”

“Quiet, doctor,” snaps Lovelace. She twists a dial just slightly, and another line flashes green.

Fourier leans over, peering at the countdown. “Three and a half minutes. How close are we?”

“Almost there...” Lovelace can feel her heart thumping in her chest as she adjusts the last dial. She has to do this. She has to make it home. If not for herself, then for Fourier and Selberg and Hui and Lambert and Fisher. For Rhea, even. For Goddard-fucking-Futuristics and Mr. Cutter. Someone needs to put them in their place and its going to be _her_.

The last line flashes green. Lovelace exhales a breath she didn't know she was holding. “Okay. Fourier, may I?”

She gestures to the comms. Fourier nods and moves aside.

“Ground, can you confirm we're on the correct trajectory?”

“Affirmative, Captain. You may want to slow up on your approach, though, it'll be easier on your hull. In fact, you could cut the engines altogether.”

“Okay. Copy that.” Lovelace reaches across the controls and shuts the VX3 off. The ship's humming gets quieter and the rattling stops. They're just free-falling now, hurtling back down to Earth after three years. “Selberg, get telemetry online. There's a switch on your left, it should have a label.”

“Yes, Captain. I see it.” There's a click as he flips the switch. The screen showing the trajectory numbers changes to show the telemetry data.

“Two minutes,” says Fourier.

“You may want to strap yourselves in,” says Minkowski.

Lovelace taps at the keys for one of the monitors. “Just a moment. I need to make sure the parachute deployment is on standby.”

“It is.” Fourier takes a seat. “I checked a second ago.”

“Thank you.” Lovelace smiles at her, and then turns to the comms again. “Everything is in working order and we're two minutes out from the Kármán line-”

At that exact moment, about ten different warning lights blink red.

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me,” groans Lovelace.

“What? What's wrong?” Minkowski sounds frantic- she can probably hear the alarm that just went off over the comms.

Lovelace is all over the ship, frantically flipping switches, turning wheels, and pulling levers. “Fourier, tell ground that life support is going offline,” she says, gritting her teeth. “Selberg, give me a hand, would you?”

A split second later, Fourier is out of her seat and in front of the microphone. “Commander, our life support is failing. Captain Lovelace is trying to fix it but-”

“We have a minute and a half until atmospheric reentry!” cries Selberg from across the shuttle. He's trying desperately to keep up with Lovelace's instructions.

“No, Doctor, the _other_ yellow dial! Yes, yes, that one!” Lovelace slams her fist against the hull of the ship. “Work, dammit!”

Suddenly, the alarms stop. The warning lights blink off, one by one. Everyone exhales.

“Huh,” says Fourier, “I wish that worked more often.”

Lovelace snorts. “Tell me about it.”

“Captain Lovelace? Is everything alright?” Minkowski's voice is ever-so-slightly strained, as if she feared the worst.

Lovelace pushes herself to the comms system. “We're fine, Commander. Situation normal.”

“Oh, thank god,” Minkowski exhales.

The computer chimes. This time, Selberg clears his throat. “One minute until reentry.”

He's right; Lovelace can feel the ship getting warmer and warmer.

“Alright, ground, we'll see you in a few minutes,” Lovelace says, triumphant and disbelieving.

“Copy that, sir. Don't die.”

“Will do.” And with that, Lovelace switches off the comms. She takes her seat next to Fourier, screwing her helmet into place. She twists around to look both Fourier and Selberg in the eye. “In case we die, I just wanted to let you know-”

The computer chimes twice. Thirty seconds.

“We know, Captain,” Fourier says.

Lovelace bites her lip. “Isabel. Just Isabel is fine. Not for you, Selberg, just her. You still call me Captain Lovelace.”

Selberg gives her a look. “Buckle your seatbelt, _Captain Lovelace_.”

Lovelace rolls her eyes and does exactly that, just in time for the shuttle to slam into the thermosphere.

After three years of no gravity, the pressure as they descend into the atmosphere is excruciating. Sweat begins to bead at the back of Lovelace's neck and her heart thumps painfully in her chest. It takes all of her willpower to stay conscious. She can feel her breathing getting more ragged, uneven. And then everything goes dark.

* * *

 

When Lovelace's eyes blink open again, she doesn't know where she is. Her helmet's off and everything is heavy and she feels like she might be sick.

At least she's not dead. Or, it doesn't _feel_ like she's dead.

“Hey,” comes a voice, and then Fourier is leaning over her, running her fingers through Lovelace's hair. “We made it. We're home.”

It hits Lovelace that she's lying in Fourier's lap. Somehow, that does not alarm her as much as she thought it would. Not that she'd thought about lying in Fourier's lap, obviously.

“Why's...why's everything…” Lovelace's speech is slurred. “Why can't I move?”

Fourier smiles. “I was going to ask you that. How often were you doing those fitness routines?”

Lovelace closes her eyes. “Damn. Where's Selberg? Is he alright?”

“I think he's fine. He seemed a little weird when we landed...” Fourier trails off. “He's outside the shuttle with the emergency transmitter. He wants to make sure there's a good signal for Commander Minkowski to follow. I was on the comms with her a minute ago, but the system is a little...fried?”

“I'll take the ship in for repairs, yeah?” Lovelace cracks a little smile and shifts her head to get a better look around the wrecked shuttle. “Did the Commander have an ETA?”

“She said fifteen minutes about ten minutes ago. And if by repairs you mean buying an obscene amount of explosives and blowing every last piece of scrap in this tin can to dust, I will gladly assist.” Fourier has moved her hand from the top of Lovelace's head to the side of her cheek. Lovelace is trying her very best to ignore it.

“I didn't realize you felt so strongly.”

“And you don't?”

“Touché.” After a moment, Lovelace opens her eyes. “Hey, Fourier?”

Fourier tucks a strand of loose hair behind Lovelace's ear. “Yeah?”

“Mind helping me sit up?”

“Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to-” Fourier's cheeks flush. Lovelace laughs.

“It's fine. Just…” she sucks in a breath, slowly pushing herself up. Fourier reaches under Lovelace's arms and props her up against the hull so that they're sitting beside each other.

“Much better,” Lovelace says, her head drooping to one side.

“Careful,” says Fourier, catching Lovelace's shoulder, and suddenly their faces are really, _really_ close. “Don't want you to hurt yourself.”

The shuttle creaks and Lovelace doesn't really pay attention to it until she realizes that it sounds less like the ship settling and more like someone opening the hatch.

“Oh, god, we're interrupting something,” says Commander Minkowski, this time not over the comms.

Fourier makes a sound that Lovelace can only describe as a squeak and jumps back.

A man, Lovelace assumes he's Officer Eiffel, steps into the shuttle behind her. He takes one look at Lovelace and Fourier and turns to Minkowski. “Should we come back in, like, half an hour?”

“Eiffel, just...call the medics over.” Minkowski sighs and pushes him out of the shuttle. “Can either of you move?”

Lovelace shakes her head. “A little, but between three years of no gravity and a few months in cryo...”

“I thought so.” Minkowski nods.

Eiffel returns with the medics a moment later. They carry the crew to the helicopter, even Selberg, who _can_ walk, thank you very much. Soon Lovelace and Fourier and Selberg are all hooked up to a half-dozen machines apiece. The blades thunder to life and the helicopter rises off the ground and, within an instant, Lovelace falls asleep.

* * *

“Quarantine,” Lovelace says. “They put us in quarantine?”

On the other side of the window, Minkowski nods. “It's a little outdated, I know, but you _did_ report that members of your crew died of an unknown illness. We can't be too safe.”

Lovelace sighs. “For how long?”

“Just three weeks.”

“Where's Fourier?”

“Safe. In quarantine.”

“And Selberg?”

“The same.”

Lovelace exhales again. “No one's worried about the...what'd they call it…?”

“Grade three muscle weakness?” Minkowski suggests.

“Yeah, that.”

“Well, considering it was grade two a few days ago, you should be fine as long as you keep taking the methandrostenolone pills. Don't worry, Captain. If anything, we're being paranoid about your health.”

There's a long pause.

“Thank you, Minkowski. For everything.” Lovelace looks her in the eye, dead serious.

“...You're welcome. Someone will check in tomorrow.” And then Lovelace is alone.

* * *

Quarantine reminds Lovelace too much of the Hephaestus. From the claustrophobia to the buzz of the fluorescent lights to the permeating sense of being alone, its like she never even left the station.

So it doesn't surprise her that she can't get more than two hours of sleep at a time. Lately, the nightmares have been particularly vivid. Whoever is watching her has noticed; there's a new pill in the paper cup that comes with every other meal.

When she can't sleep, Lovelace preoccupies herself with the exercises assigned to her by the physical therapist. Most of them are simple, like lifting her arm over her head, but others are proving more difficult. In particular, walking twenty feet without aid.

She's made it up to almost fifteen feet when there's a knock on the window.

It's Eiffel. Lovelace sighs, but walks over to stand in front of him.

“Yes?”

Eiffel holds up a copy of the __Washington Post__. “You made the front page.”

He's right. The headline reads 'Space Station Crew Returns Home- On Their Own Terms'. Underneath is a photo of the crashed shuttle, in a worst state than Lovelace remembered.

“That's not the only one!” he continues, pressing today's _New York Times_ to the window as well. This one has the original crew photograph, the faces of Fisher and Lambert and Hui smiling up at her. A wave of guilt slams into Lovelace's gut.

“I wish I made the front page of the _New York Times_. The closest I ever got was that one time with the school newspaper in ninth grade...”

Lovelace shakes her head. “No, you really don't.”

“Don't what? Wish I could make the news?” Eiffel scrunches his nose. “I guess you're right.”

“Just...trust me.”

They sit in an awkward silence for a minute, until Eiffel clears his throat.

“So...you've been gone for three years. That's three years of pop culture you missed out on.”

“And?”

“You missed so much! So many things happened! Disney bought Star Wars!”

“I care about this because….?” As dull as the exercise routines are, Lovelace would rather practice lifting her arm over her head than put up with this conversation.

Eiffel shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. “I dunno. What else is there for me to talk about?”

Lovelace opens her mouth.

“That I have clearance to,” Eiffel adds, before she can say anything.

Lovelace hesitates. She really dislikes this man. “Fine. What did I miss?”

Eiffel grins. “Oh, you have _no idea_.”

* * *

Soon, the three weeks are up. Before she can ask any questions, Lovelace is ushered to the showers to wash with something other than the dry shampoo and bar of soap from the quarantine room.

Standing under the water is a worryingly foreign feeling, but not an unwelcome one. Lovelace is still in the conserve-everything mindset that living on a space station fosters, so her shower is brisk and efficient. She walks out of the bathroom in a little over three minutes.

“They told me you just went in…?” Minkowski jumps up from the small bench she had been waiting on. Lovelace shrugs.

“Old habits die hard. I take it you have news for me?”

“That's correct, sir. Unfortunately, none of it is good.”

The half-smile Lovelace is sporting slides off her face. “Go on.”

“One, Goddard Futuristics issued a statement earlier today denouncing your story as a lie. Two, Doctor Selberg has refused further treatment and has booked a flight back to Moscow. Three, and I'm very sorry we couldn't tell you about this sooner Captain,” Minkowski swallows. “During quarantine, Doctor Fourier began to exhibit bizarre symptoms. According to your report, they were like the ones Officer Lambert and Doctor Hui experienced before they...We think she has their...virus.”

“What?” Lovelace's knees feel weak. Nothing ever changes, then. It's like she never even left the Hephaestus.

“I'm sorry, sir, I really am-”

“Is she _alright_?”

“Yes, yeah, she's in medical. The doctors ran some tests, but they've never seen anything like this before.”

“Take me to her.”

“Captain, I'm not sure if I can-”

“I wasn't asking, Minkowski,” says Lovelace, taking a step towards her, “Take. Me. To. Her.”

Minkowski runs a hand down her face and whispers a “goddammit” to herself. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Lovelace exhales, but she feels sick to her stomach. They lied to her about her own crew. Not just withheld information, but lied. All those times Minkowski or Eiffel told her that Fourier was fine. They lied.

“I'm only doing this because I feel terrible about it. And because you outrank me. Don't expect any more favors.” Minkowski says as she leads Lovelace to an elevator at the end of the hallway. Her shoes click on the linoleum.“We're already in the medical building. Floor three, room nine. It should be on your left.”

They reach the elevator and stand awkwardly beside each other until the doors slide open. Lovelace lets Minkowski usher her inside. She presses her thumb against the button labeled '3' and the doors close with a dissonant chime. The elevator hums as it rises out of sub-basement two, according to the buttons panel. Lovelace stands completely still until the doors open again.

The hallway is clean and white, rows of doors on either side, mostly open. Nurses and doctors bustle between rooms, occasionally pausing to talk to each other. It takes a good thirty seconds before Lovelace can get her legs to move. Whether that's the muscle atrophy or her nerves is anyone's guess.

Room 309 is near the middle of the hallway. There's a card next to the number reading “Fourier, Victoire”. Lovelace freezes in the doorway.

She can see Fourier lying in bed, her hair messy and spread across the pillow. She looks pale and clammy, like she's running a fever, but there's a patch of bright red rash that starts at the base of her neck and disappears under her hospital gown.

“Morbilliform,” Lovelace mumbles to herself.

One of Fourier's doctors has stopped to stand next to her. She nods. “Along with a pulmonary infection. Pneumonia, most likely. Captain Lovelace, right? You've seen this before?”

Lovelace stares blankly at Fourier's EKG monitor, watching her, thankfully steady, heartbeat. “Twice. It just gets worse from here.”

“I'm sorry. That can't have been easy.”

“It wasn't.”

The doctor exhales. “I've seen your report, but if there are any other symptoms that you remember...”

“I know. I will.”

“You can go in, you know. It's still visiting hours.” The doctor gestures at the plastic chair next to the bed. Lovelace hesitates, but stumbles into the room, collapsing into the seat.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady.

Fourier's doctor shrugs, absently checking the monitors on the wall. “It's all very bizarre. This...we're tentatively calling it a virus, it's not contagious. She couldn't have gotten it by accident.”

“You're saying what, exactly? That somebody _gave_ this to her?” Lovelace instinctively reaches for Fourier's hand. She doesn't hold it, but instead brushes the back of their palms together.

“Something like that. Like I said, we're not sure. Judging by the damage it has already done and how much is in her system, we can estimate that she's had the virus for about three months.”

Lovelace bites her lip in thought. “What month is it?”

“February. Why?” She leans over to adjust a dial on one of the machines.

“We left in August and were in cryo the whole time. There's no way she could have gotten sick three months ago.”

The doctor freezes. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Wait, you said you were in cryostasis? That could explain it, the virus may have been dormant. You've been back about a month- can you remember anything strange happening around June?”

A chill runs down Lovelace's neck. “That's when we lost Doctor Hui.”

“The same virus?”

Lovelace nods, staring down at Fourier.

“We'll get to the bottom of this, I promise. Stay as long as you want,” assures the doctor on her way out the door.

“Thank you.” Lovelace glances up at her. “I mean it.”

The doctor turns back to give her a sad smile, and then its just her and Fourier.

“You're not allowed to die just yet. That's an order,” Lovelace whispers, pressing the back of her hand closer to Fourier's. Maybe it's just her imagination, maybe it's a trick of the light, but Lovelace swears that she sees Fourier smile, just a little.

* * *

Lovelace catches the commander on her way home one evening.

“Minkowski!” she calls, jogging to catch up with her.

Minkowski looks like she's had a long, long day. Her hair is falling out of her usually-neat bun and there are bags under her eyes. Lovelace wonders for a moment if now is the right time, but she _needs_ to do this.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Could you do me a favor?” Lovelace digs into the pocket of her windbreaker and pulls out a small stack of folded papers.

Minkowski straightens up. “Anything. Within reason, I mean.”

“Great, okay.” Suddenly, Lovelace finds herself at a loss for words. She can tell that Minkowski is trying her best not to be impatient. Lovelace holds the papers out towards her. “Can you mail these? Doctor Hui...they're for his family...”

Almost immediately, Commander Minkowski catches up. “Of course. Did he write down addresses?”

Lovelace nods, handing her the letters. Minkowski takes them from her, carefully. She smooths out some of the creases.

“First thing tomorrow, Captain. I promise.”

* * *

Lovelace runs into Eiffel outside of the psychology office.

Well, it's more like Eiffel runs into her.

“Hey-o, Captain,” he says, unusually cheery for somebody who had just been speaking with a therapist.

“'Morning, Eiffel.” Lovelace had been leaning against the wall, but she stands up straight. “I wasn't expecting to see you here.”

“Yeah, well.” Eiffel scratches his head. Lovelace can tell he hasn't shaved in at least two days. “I'm supposed to check in with this guy every other week. That, or be discharged. It's a long story. I'll tell it to you sometime?”

“Sure,” she replies, amused. “I'm sure you've figured out why _I'm_ here.”

Eiffel laughs. “I have some vague ideas.”

“Unfortunately, all of my ideas are extremely detailed and debilitatingly traumatic.”

“Speaking of debilitating, how is Doctor Fourier?”

Lovelace sighs. “Stable, for the most part. Her pneumonia is better, she's off the respirator, but they can't figure out how to get rid of the virus. She's on a ridiculous amount of antibiotics to keep everything under control and they want to start her on antivirals soon.”

Eiffel grimaces. “Sounds stressful.”

“It's definitely not helping anything.”

“Hey, uh, if you ever need something...” Eiffel trails off.

Lovelace nods. “I know. Thanks. I might be taking you up on that soon.”

The psychology door opens, and a balding man steps out, Dr. Castaneda. “Ah, Captain Lovelace. Right on time.”

“Have fun!” Eiffel jokes, waving to Lovelace as he backs down the hallway to the stairwell.

Lovelace shakes her head. “That man...”

“He's certainly something else.” Dr. Castaneda holds his door open with an arm. “Come in, come in. How have you been?”

Lovelace sinks into one of the overstuffed armchairs. “Terrible.”

“That is understandable. How much sleep have you been getting?” Dr. Castaneda grabs a pad of paper from his desk and begins to jot down notes in shorthand.

“I got four and a half hours the other night, but still averaging about three.”

“You're improving, that's good to hear. Are you still having nightmares?”

“Oh, yeah. They've gotten a little less...vivid. Intense. Still awful, though. There's one I keep having…” Lovelace struggles to find words.

“You don't have to share anything you don't feel comfortable talking about.” Dr. Castaneda's voice is gentle as he reminds her.

She exhales. “I _want_ to talk about it. I just…don't know if I can right now.”

“That's fine. Our last appointment, you mentioned that you're seeing things. Is that still an issue?”

“Getting worse, actually. I keep thinking I'm still on the Hephaestus, keep seeing Fisher or Lambert or Hui out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I hear Rhea, or look out the window at night and see Wolf 359...” Lovelace swallows.

Dr. Castaneda writes this down, leans back in his seat, and takes his glasses off. “It's possible those symptoms relate to lack of sleep, but I do not have a definite explanation. But, tell me, how have you been feeling? What's on your mind?”

“Where do I even start,” laughs Lovelace. “Lately, Selberg. He's probably the only one who knows what Fourier has and how to get rid of it. But, of course, right as I need him, he runs back home to Russia. I feel so…helpless. I'm losing Fourier the same way I lost Hui and Lambert, and all I can do is sit and watch.”

Dr. Castaneda flips to a new page on his notepad. Lovelace falls silent for a moment, watching the second hand of the wall clock tick.

“I read Goddard's statement last night. About how my story is a hoax.”

“And how did it make you feel?”

“I don't know. Angry, I guess. I know it was Cutter that wrote it, the bastard. I'm going to get back at him, at all of them, if it's the last thing I do.” Lovelace's fists are clenched tight.

Dr. Castaneda sighs. “I understand where you come from, but I want you to recognize that fixating on revenge is not a healthy behavior.”

“...I understand,” Lovelace replies, relaxing. She's lying.

* * *

By a stroke of luck, Minkowski manages to find Lovelace quarters in the medical building. Technically, the rooms in the block are reserved for patient's families-

“But you're the closest thing she has to a family,” Minkowski says as she unlocks the door. “And considering what Eiffel and I walked in on...”

“Shut up.” Lovelace's reply is good-natured.

“Hey, you two have my blessing. Just promise me you won't make it serious until both of you are in better condition.”

“Have you forgotten that I outrank you, Minkowski? Because it sure sounds like you have.”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Good.”

* * *

Finally, Lovelace gets a clean bill of health from the physical therapist. She still has her weekly cardiologist appointment and her bi-weekly radiology exam and regular meetings with Dr. Castaneda, but at least she feels like she's getting somewhere.

Sans the hours of exercise, Lovelace's week is suddenly much longer. Part of the time went towards keeping vigil at Fourier's bedside. She was, slowly but surely, getting better. The rest of her free time she devoted to her pet project. Namely, getting sweet, sweet revenge on Goddard Futuristics.

“I'm taking them to court,” she tells Eiffel. She had enlisted him to help out with research, and Eiffel had a surprising knack for it.

“Do you have a lawyer? What are you even going to sue them for?”

“You know I can't answer either of those.” Lovelace flips through a stack of papers, uncapping a highlighter with her teeth.

“So...we have no idea what we're doing?”

“Yep.”

Eiffel flops on his back, sprawling over Lovelace's bed and groaning.

Lovelace's highlighter scratches across her page, a chart of some sort of financial data. “You're either helping, or you can go grab us some dinner from the mess.”

Eiffel groans louder. There's a knock on the door. He pulls himself to his feet. “I'll get it.”

Lovelace makes a noise of acknowledgement, still focused on trying to make sense of the chart. She hears the click of Eiffel unlocking the deadbolt and the creak of the hinges as he swings the door open. She hears Eiffel gasp.

“Hey, Captain...”

“What, who is it?” Lovelace glances up from the papers in her lap and her heart nearly stops.

It's Fourier. Victoire Fourier, alive and awake and standing in her doorway. Lovelace doesn't bother to set her work aside, just leaps out of the chair, letting everything fall to the floor. She crosses the room in a few steps and pulls Fourier into a bone-crushing hug.

“You're alive.” Lovelace's voice is thick with emotion. She buries her head into the crook of Fourier's neck and inhales until it feels like her lungs might burst.

“Yeah.” Fourier sounds shaky, but she's smiling wide enough that Lovelace is sure it hurts. “I am.”

Lovelace exhales and takes half a step back so that she and Fourier are eye-to-eye.

“You're crying.” Fourier cocks her head. Lovelace notices that her eyes are watery too.

“Yeah, well, can't blame me, can you?”

“I'm gonna go…?” Eiffel interrupts, shuffling towards the hallway.

Lovelace closes her eyes and presses her forehead to Fourier's. “Please do.”

She doesn't even wait for Eiffel to shut the door behind him before she pulls Fourier into another hug.

“Easy, girl,” says to herself, just under her breath.

Fourier smiles wider. “What was that?”

“Nothing. Hey, uh, is your outfit from the visitors' center gift shop?”

Fourier looks down at her clothing. She's not in the hospital gown anymore, but in sweatpants and a t-shirt both emblazoned with the Air Force logo. She laughs. “Probably. I don't know. They kinda just... gave me these to put on.”

Lovelace drops her hands from Fourier's shoulders and grabs her by the wrists. “What happened? Did they get rid of the virus?”

“Not exactly. The doctor had been trying different cocktails of antivirals to force the major symptoms into remission and one just happened to work.” Fourier walks over to sit on Lovelace's bed. The sheets are rumpled from where Eiffel had been a few moments ago. “The pneumonia and the rash are gone, but my immune system is still recovering. It's not a permanent solution, but its better than lying in a hospital bed for the rest of my life.”

Lovelace sits down next to her. “You should see all the meds they've got me on. Blood thinners, SSRIs, an antipsychotic for the hallucinations...”

Fourier gives her a concerned look. “Hallucinations?”

“They're getting better. Has anyone told you about Selberg?” Lovelace tries to keep her tone neutral, but she spits out Selberg's name like it's a curse.

“Yeah. He went back to Russia.” Fourier purses her lips. “Hey, Captain-”

“Isabel,” Lovelace corrects. “Remember?”

“Right. Okay. Isabel. I've been thinking. Do you think it's possible that...it could have been Selberg who gave Lambert and Hui and I this virus? I mean, it's pretty much impossible for the Hephaestus to have been contaminated from the beginning, and all of us were healthy before we left…?”

Lovelace doesn't respond for a long time. “No...no, Selberg's ethics are questionable, but he wouldn't...he would never...not on his own crew.”

Fourier reaches for her hand. “We have to consider every option. It was either you or him, and I trust _you_ with my life. Selberg, on the other hand…”

“Please, can we have this conversation _any_ time other than right now?” Lovelace's voice cracks at the end of her question.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” Fourier tangles their fingers together, smiling apologetically.

“It's alright. I'm…alright. It's just a lot to think about.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Lovelace leans over and rests her head on Fourier's shoulder.

“You hungry? They're still serving dinner downstairs.”

“Starving.”

* * *

The doorbell rings.

It's March now and Minkowski had found Lovelace and Fourier a place to live that wasn't a cramped room in the medical building of an Air Force base. To keep Goddard from knocking on their door, she had pulled a few more strings and gotten them into a semi-witness protection program.

Which meant that, at least on paper, Fourier and Lovelace were a married couple by the names of Charlotte and April Maddox.

A married couple.

Lovelace thought about that a lot.

They weren't, as far as she knew, anything other than good friends. But three years of pining and Lambert not-so-subtly reminding them that “crew relationships are expressly forbidden” every time they so much as made eye contact had to count for _something_.

And then there was that time Hui had broken into Selberg's lab and used his chemistry minor to synthesize a batch of really, really strong alcohol and things had gotten...interesting.

Dr. Castaneda had given Lovelace a curious look when she had explained the situation to him.

“I did recommend that you stay together, for your sake as much as Doctor Fourier's, but I did not mean for the Commander to take me so literally,” he had said. Lovelace hadn't known how to respond.

The doorbell rings again, twice. Lovelace gets up from where she had been sitting cross-legged on the couch. She fumbles with the locks on the door, five, and tries to remember if there were plans she was forgetting.

Eiffel is standing outside holding a stack of DVDs under one arm and a Tupperware of what looks to be some sort of pasta dish. He grins up at her.

“Hey, Captain!”

So she had forgotten something. Her eyes widen. “Oh my god, it's Fourier's birthday.”

Eiffel nods. “Mmm-hmm. She home yet?”

“N-no. She's interviewing with some college.” Lovelace ushers him in. She glances at the clock on the oven ( _not_ Goddard Futuristics brand, nothing they owned was. It had taken a hell of an effort but they both slept much better.) It's 5:43, which lines up with Lovelace's internal clock for the first time that day. The lack of day-and-night on the Hephaestus had done a number on her Circadian rhythm, and despite being back for two and a half months, it was hard to readjust.

“That's from the Commander, by the way,” Eiffel says, gesturing at the Tupperware after setting it down on the kitchen counter. “She sends her best regards, but apparently she has a date with her husband I keep forgetting actually exists.”

Lovelace startles. “Commander Minkowski...has a husband?”

“I know, right!” Eiffel flops into a chair at the table. “I'm still convinced that it's all an elaborate prank.”

Lovelace shakes her head and looks down at the Tupperware. “Do I...stick this in the oven? Did she tell you what I should do with it?”

“Nope.” Eiffel crosses his arms behind his head and props his feet up on the table. “Couldn't you ask Fourier? She's French, right? French people know how to cook.”

Lovelace stares at him. “I don't even know where to _start_ -”

Someone unlocks the door as Eiffel tries desperately to justify himself. Lovelace cranes her neck to see who it is.

“Doug's here!” exclaims Fourier, shutting the door behind her.

Eiffel scrambles to take his feet off the table before Fourier notices.

“Did you know that Minkowski's married?” Lovelace asks her, leaning against the refrigerator and smiling.

“Oh, yeah. She mentioned it the other day. Why?” Fourier pops the lid off of the Tupperware and turns the oven on. Eiffel pumps his fist.

“See!” he mouths to Lovelace.

She rolls her eyes at him. “No reason. It didn't surprise you?”

Scooping the pasta into a dish, Fourier shrugs. “She's a nice woman. Should I have been?”

“Hold on,” Eiffel pipes up, “Why are _you_ cooking? It's your birthday.”

Fourier smiles at him. “Because I'm the only one who can.”

Lovelace gives a mock-incredulous gasp and crosses her arms. “How do you know!”

“Oh, really?” Fourier crosses her arms back, giggling. “So that time you tried to fry eggs was just-”

Cutting her off, Lovelace covers Fourier's mouth with her hand.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” she deadpans.

“Lick her hand!” Eiffel stage-whispers to Fourier.

Lovelace narrows her eyes at him. “Watch it, Eiffel.”

Before anyone can do anything, the oven beeps. Lovelace drops her hand.

“Cook your damn pasta, you traitor.”

Fourier smiles sweetly at her. Lovelace curses herself for finding it really endearing. Eiffel starts talking about the DVDs he brought with him and she tunes him out.

Fourier coughs.

Suddenly, she's sitting on the couch. The clock reads 7:02 and she doesn't remember anything that happened in the previous hour. Another time-skip. The third one today. Did she forget her meds?

There's a movie playing that she neither recognizes nor finds easy to follow. Fourier is sitting next to her, close enough that their shoulders are touching. She notices Lovelace's confusion and gives her a concerned look.

“You alright?”

Lovelace exhales and meets her gaze. “Yeah.”

Fourier coughs again. Panic wells in Lovelace's chest. She _knows_ that sound. “Is everything...?”

Without warning, Fourier falls into a bout of hacking. Eiffel pauses the movie.

“Hey, what's-”

Lovelace holds out a finger, silencing him, and gets up from her spot on the couch to sit on the coffee table so that she's directly in front of Fourier. She cups her face with a shaking hand. “Look at me.”

Fourier does. Lovelace has never seen her look more terrified in her life.

“You're going to be fine, okay? Breathe.”

Coughing weakly, Fourier nods. She inhales.

Lovelace motions to Eiffel. “Get her a glass of water.”

“Yes sir.” He runs into the kitchen.

Fourier is breathing steadily now, albeit too shallow. Lovelace checks her pulse. It's not quite racing, but it's definitely outside of the realm of normal.

“Take deep breaths,” she tells Fourier, keeping her voice low and her tone gentle. She can hear Eiffel filling a cup up from the tap. “You're fine.”

She keeps her thumb on Fourier's wrist until her heartbeat slows down. Eiffel sets a mug of water on the table next to Lovelace. She thrusts it into Fourier's hands.

“Drink.”

Eiffel shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Anything else you need?”

Lovelace shakes her head. “No. Thank you, though.”

Fourier sips at her water. Lovelace doesn't think about all the terrible things she would do to keep her safe.

* * *

The next morning, Fourier nearly passes out in the middle of a conversation. They spend the rest of the day in medical building, Fourier's doctors running more tests.

“We're doing everything we can,” one says, and Lovelace knows enough to tell that they've run out of solutions.

* * *

Despite the fact that it's only May, the tribunal hall is sweltering. It's incredibly difficult to focus when, between the ungodly humidity and the sheer number of people crammed into the room, the air feels about as thick as syrup.

Lovelace can hear the Goddard spokesman droning on and on about their aeronautics program.

Fourier's in the hospital again. She had testified earlier last week, Lovelace isn't worried about that part.

Their lawyer, one of Minkowski's friends from high school with a similarly unpronounceable last name, taps her on the shoulder.

“You might want to listen to this,” she whispers.

“Goddard Futuristics calls Dmitri Volodin as a witness.”

And then Selberg, Doctor Elias Selberg, is walking up to the stand. Lovelace feels sick.

Lovelace feels sick and confused and angry and all she can say is-

“What?”

* * *

She corners Selberg as soon as they break for the afternoon.

They're in an empty hallway in one of the wings and Lovelace catches Selberg off his guard, pinning him to the wall by his neck

“What the _hell_?” she hisses, furious. “Why are you on _their_ side?”

“Captain, please,” Selberg croaks. Lovelace relaxes her grip.

“Talk.”

“I'm sorry, I had no choice-”

She shakes her head. “Try again.”

He sighs. “What is it you want to know.”

“Everything, Selberg!” Lovelace crosses her arms. “Or is it Volodin now? Yeah, start with that.”

Selberg frowns at her, almost condescending. “Elias Selberg is a pseudonym. I was born Dmitri Volodin. Any other questions?”

“Why are you testifying for Goddard?”

Selberg pauses. “You are not going to like my answer-”

“Why. Are you. Testifying. For Goddard?” Lovelace's voice drops to a whisper, but her words are vitriolic.

“Doctor Fourier is in the hospital, correct?”

“What does _that_ have to do with anything?”

Selberg ignores her. “She has the same virus as Lambert. As Hui.”

“I'm not an idiot, Selberg-”

“I am the only one who can cure her.”

Lovelace blinks. “What?”

“Mr. Cutter gave me two choices. I could either testify for them and be allowed to treat Doctor Fourier, or I could testify against them and let her die. I picked the first option. Anything else you would like to know?”

“Why-” Lovelace takes a moment to gather herself, “Why are you the only one who can cure her?”

“The purpose of the Hephaestus mission was never to collect radiological data. Or to scan for extraterrestrial intelligence.” Selberg glances around the hallway and lowers his voice. “My role was to test the effects of Wolf 359's unique radiation on a manmade retrovirus by the name of Decima. Highly fragile, highly dangerous, but it has the potential to...reverse cellular damage. To make one stronger. It is not very stable in experimental conditions; it needs a host to survive for extended periods. To properly test the virus, it needs an incubator.”

“So you're saying-”

Selberg nods. “-Doctor Fourier has Decima, yes.”

“You were running experiments on my crew? Without my knowledge?”

“Would you have let me run them if you knew?”

Lovelace doesn't respond.

“Exactly.”

There's a long silence as everything sinks in.

“She was right,” Lovelace says to herself.

Selberg cocks his head. “What was that?”

“Fourier. She was right. She...thought you were the one who killed Lambert and Hui. Who gave her this virus. Decima. Whatever it's called.”

Selberg gives a small, sad smile. “A bright young woman, Doctor Fourier, isn't she? When Command gave me orders to transfer Decima to her, I was...disappointed.”

“Disappointed,” repeats Lovelace, her voice shaking. “You were following through with orders to _kill her_ and you were _disappointed_?”

“Captain, I-”

“Don't interrupt me, Doctor,” she snarls. “Were you _disappointed_ when you watched Lambert die? Were you _disappointed_ Hui's last few nights, when he could barely breathe through his fits of coughing? Sam had a daughter, Selberg, and Hui was a civilian! How can you stand here and-”

“What do you _want_ me to do! I can't bring them back, Lovelace. I can only move forward. Which is why I need Doctor Fourier _alive_.”

“You want to keep experimenting on her?” Lovelace can't even gather the strength to raise her voice. “You're letting Goddard run free so you can what? Invent a supervirus?”

“ _You_ are ignoring the impact Decima could have on humanity if I can accomplish my work! It could negate effects of radiation poisoning, possibly even delay aging-”

She shakes her head. “I think you're just a coward.”

“So I should let her die just to get revenge? I should let years of work go to waste? Do you really think this-” Selberg waves his hand for emphasis- “tribunal is going to stop Goddard?”

“Yes, Selberg,” Lovelace crosses her arms, “I do. And I think you're too scared of them to do the right thing. Who, exactly, will stop you from treating Doctor Fourier if you testify?”

He sighs. “This is not as simple a situation as you are making it out to be.”

“Really?” Lovelace gives him an icy smile. “Then explain it to me, Doctor.”

“Fine,” Selberg grumbles. “You want to know? Goddard owns all of my research. Decades of it. If I go back on our deal, they will destroy it.”

Lovelace slams a hand on the wall next to Selberg's head. “This is bigger than you, Dmitri Volodin. This is bigger than me and bigger than Fourier and bigger than everyone you've killed for your pet virus. This is about everyone Goddard has ever hurt. Everyone they will continue to hurt if we don't _stop them_.”

Selberg doesn't say anything.

She steps back and crosses her arms. “So. This is what you will do. Tomorrow morning you are going to walk back into that room, you are going to tell the truth, and then we are going to do whatever it takes to get Fourier back to full health. You are going to remove Decima from her bloodstream, whatever that entails, and you are not going to experiment on her, or anyone, ever again. I am not taking no for an answer. Do you understand?”

Selberg glares at her. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. I am not losing my life's work to your inability to make decisions.”

“My-”

Selberg straightens up. “You can't pick between getting back at Goddard Futuristics and saving Doctor Fourier. That is not my fault. I have made my decision, it is time you made yours. If you would prefer that I let her die, you have until tomorrow to let me know.”

And with that, Selberg turns and leaves.

Lovelace watches him walk down the hallway and doesn't move, not for a long time.

* * *

Surprisingly, Fourier is awake when Lovelace makes it to the hospital.

“The transfusion worked,” she tells her, smiling widely. “Just a few days of bed rest, then some more tests, then maybe I can get out of here.”

Lovelace takes her hand, smiling back. “That's...that's great news.”

“How was the trial?” Fourier shifts closer to her.

Lovelace closes her eyes. “Exhausting. Eventful.”

“Tell me.”

Lovelace takes a deep breath. She isn't sure what to say. It's not fair to tell her about Selberg's deal, she knows that. Fourier, brilliant, perfect Fourier, would never be satisfied to know that someone placed her life ahead of someone else's.

But Lovelace at least owes her the truth.

“Selberg was there,” she says, looking away.

Fourier's eyes widen. “He was?”

“Yeah. He was there to testify for Goddard. Pretty much everything he said was a lie, but that's Selberg for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I caught him after we ended for the day. Got him to talk.” Lovelace hesitates again.

Fourier squeezes her hand. “Go on.”

“This isn't easy to...” She looks Fourier directly in the eye. “Are you _sure_ you want to hear this?”

She doesn't even hesitate. “Yes, absolutely.”

“...You were right about Selberg. He was the one who gave you and Hui and Lambert the virus. He was experimenting on you, something about the star's radiation triggering mutations. That was the purpose of the Hephaestus mission, not deep space survey. We were never supposed to even make it back home.”

Lovelace's words seem to echo around the room in the ensuing silence.

“Oh,” says Fourier

“Told you it was gonna be hard to hear,” says Lovelace, giving her a small smile.

“Yeah, no kidding.”

They sit like that for a long while, the rest of what Selberg told her sitting on the tip of Lovelace's tongue.

“You're not telling me something,” Fourier says, almost a question.

Lovelace shakes her head and gives her a warm look. “You're too smart for your own good sometimes. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No, I just know you too well.”

“Selberg is convinced he's the only one who can cure you. He may be right, he's spent years working with the virus.”

“Which is an issue because…?”

“He won't help you _and_ give an honest testimony. One or the other.”

Fourier frowns. “What an _asshole_. Why would he do that?”

“I...don't know. Maybe to protect his work? Goddard will probably shut him down if he spills the truth, not to mention that the rest of the biomedical field will hear about it. Kinda ruins the top-secret part.”

“That does sound like Selberg.”

Lovelace makes a noise in acknowledgement.

Fourier swallows. “Hey, do you mind spending the night? It gets really lonely around here...”

“Of course. Anything.” Lovelace smiles at her, but guilt swirls in her gut. She's lying to Fourier. Does that make her no better than Selberg? Than Cutter? She's doing it to protect her, of course, but Selberg thought he was too.

“Thanks,” Fourier says. “And don't worry so much. I'm going to be fine. We're both going to be fine. This is all going to work out, alright?”

Lovelace lets out a breath she didn't notice she was holding. “Alright.”

* * *

Once Lovelace is sure that Fourier is asleep, she rides the elevator down to where the pay phone is. She dials the cell number their lawyer had scrawled in blue pen on the back of her business card.

The phone rings three times before she picks up.

“It's eleven at night, who is this?”

“Isabel Lovelace. I want to drop all charges against Goddard Futuristics.”

* * *

“You _what_?”

“I dropped charges.”

“Are you _insane_? All you've wanted for a _year_ now has been to get back at Cutter and the rest of Goddard!” Fourier shakes her head. “Don't tell me you were taking Selberg seriously.”

“There are other ways to get revenge,” Lovelace says, lowering her voice.

Fourier rolls her eyes and says something under her breath.

Lovelace narrows her eyes. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“No...” She draws the word out, grinning. “You said something.”

“Fine,” Fourier says in mock-annoyance. “I said you're lucky I love you so much.”

Lovelace freezes.

“I don't-”

“You heard me.” Fourier crosses her arms, but she's fighting a smile.

Lovelace stares at her for a solid minute.

“Oh, come on. You can't be _that_ oblivious.” Fourier pokes her arm. “Hey. Say something.”

Lovelace startles. “Sorry, what?”

Fourier sighs. “Do I have to do _everything_ myself?”

And then they're kissing.

That's new.

* * *

It takes everything short of blackmail to get Selberg into the hospital. Fourier signs about 200 papers and Lovelace is lucky she held onto that business card, Minkowski's old friend signs plenty of her own as well.

But by mid-June, they've granted him access to Fourier and the list of medicines and tools he had requested. Much to Selberg's extreme dissatisfaction, he was not allowed to leave any trace of the virus in her system. He had spent a week trying to convince them to let him continue his trials, but neither Fourier nor Lovelace could be swayed and he had eventually given up.

“Goddard was not happy to hear you dropped the case,” Selberg tells Lovelace as he preps Fourier's IV. She had refused to let him work without supervision, and the hospital staff had wholeheartedly agreed. “They would have preferred to go through to the end. This makes them look more suspicious.”

“Shut up and do your job, Selberg.”

“Yes, Captain,” he says, and they spend the rest of the time it takes Selberg to neutralize Decima in silence.

“There.” Selberg steps back. “Decades of scientific progress gone. Are you happy, Captain?”

“Very. Thank you, Doctor Selberg.”

He peels his gloves off and drops them in the biohazard container before practically storming out of the room.

Another of Fourier's doctors rushes into the room to make sure Selberg kept his word and eliminated the virus. Lovelace is ushered out of the room, she was only there to supervise Selberg after all.

The tests only take half an hour, Lovelace swears it takes at least a full day until the doctor walks back out.

“She's clear,” he says. “She'll make a full recovery. Doctor Selberg is a talented man.”

And, for the first time in far, far too long, Lovelace feels like she can breathe again.

* * *

Within ten days, Fourier is released from the hospital.

“Plan?” she asks Lovelace as soon as they're outside.

Lovelace takes her hand and weaves their fingers together. “Don't have one.”

Fourier laughs. “That's a first.”

Something light and warm rises in Lovelace's chest. “Yeah. It is.”

There's still so much she hasn't finished yet, so many loose ends that need tying up. A certain corporation that needs to be put in their place. But, for now, what she has is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> a few things:  
> 1\. like 90% of why i wrote this is because there's only 2 f/f fics in the wolf 359 tag. c'mon guys. we can do better.  
> 2\. hera isn't in this fic because i had no clue what to do with her in this au? :(  
> 3\. i pretty much listened to nothing but dessa while writing this, so the title comes from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dgDpzOOCYGg).  
> 4\. hmu on [tumblr](http://concorddawns.tumblr.com) sometime!


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